Post by Mr. C on Nov 16, 2009 23:17:56 GMT -5
“Kill me, man! Let me die with honor!”
The fallen foe spat out his words beneath a mouth full of thick red blood. The force of the outburst set the man in to a coughing fit and as he struggled for breath, the pool of gore in his mouth volcanoed out and dribbled down his cheeks. The red spittle splattered across Brett’s chest and face as he reared back, fist raised high. There Cross lay, pinning a man beneath him – one hand gripped tight around the war-ravaged competitor’s throat, the other brought back ready for the final blow. The two were entangled, the result surely of a long, bloody struggle, and by how he cried out, it was one between two honorable warriors. Only now, Hammer had the Highlander pinned to the proverbial mat that was crimson stained blades of grass. But with fist held high, his face became a weird wash of emotion, a contorted canvas of concern and guilt, and a little voice in the back of his mind shouted, “Cross! Don’t!”
Cross entered the pub one he was not familiar with. When he awoke, he was cast in to a land that was not at all like his own. Yet no matter where he was, Brett could surely find a grand cup of mead. And so, Cross walked in sluggishly with his head hung. Despite any revelations he had in the past few weeks, he was still quite lethargic. Even though he’d been doing much soul-searching and self-examination, he could come up with nothing – he still knew not of what life was about, his in particular. He knows true that he was at one moment seated among the Gods, he still vividly recalls the sights and emotions of Asgaard, and he remembers the tight clench of Heimdall’s hand-shake. But beyond then, it’s a wash of white noise, of nothingness. And thusly, Brett walked the world unsure of what to do; unsure of what had happened, of where he came from or where to go. Before, his life had purpose; it had meaning, and a massive one at that: he was to save the world. Now? Now, who is to say there is a world? What if life as we know it does not exist, and all of this is naught but a dream. Who’s to say he had any control over anything he did. At one time, he was The God of Midgaard, and now he’s a purposeless peasant – and he knows not why.
Weakness is all Cross feels now, as If in that absence of his memory all of the strength he once had was stripped from him. And what’s more, the blade he used to carry to signify his strength and status, the illustrious Brandrwulf no longer is at his side. When Cross awoke back upon Midgaard, the blade was nowhere to be found, just like his strength and purpose, his title and status was stripped from him without reason as well. But weirder still, Ragnarok surely had not fallen on this world, for there were no signs of it anywhere. Ragnarok was the end of the world, the cataclysm of cataclysmic chaos, the epitome of ethereal and evil entropy. Yet not a blade of grass on this earth was harmed – it was as if the world had been saved during Cross’ absence, for who could know how long he had been out for, or perhaps Ragnarok had never fallen at all.
With a mind full of frustration and endless questions, Brett growled deep and swatted the piss-like mead aside, splashing the contents of the mug over the entirety of the patron next to him. But Cross paid no attention to this, staying lost in the dark abyss of the white noise that was his past, struggling hard to discover how things came to be. So lost was he, that he didn’t even notice the man’s anger until he stood and forcefully turned Hammer about in his seat to face him. But then, angered too because his thoughts were disrupted, Cross stood up to the man who came up just to mid-chest upon him and glowered down at him, his eyes a blazing inferno of hatred – God or not, Brett still had his size and if one thing was true, it was that his loss of powers made him walk with a chip on his shoulder, and he’d certainly jump at any chance to prove his strength once more. The man began to speak in a tongue quite foreign to Cross, but quickly realized his point was not being made and he smirked up at the big warrior before re-stating the sentence in a way Hammer could understand.
“What I said was, you can try all ye want ta look like that pathetic Norse god “’ammer,” but you won’t scare me. I should kick ye’r ass over spilling that beer on me you filthy cow.”
Brett was at first taken aback by the comment, for when he looked in to the lake earlier this week; he no longer felt he looked like his old self. Surely the beard and hair stayed true, but his muscles seemed to have diminished, his battle scars seemed to turn to age lines and his face was etched with wrinkles – it was as if his immortality began to dwindle after he’d been alive far longer than he should of, he was a God turned human long past his human time. But alas, he kept his Viking mindset, his Viking blood and whether he felt it or not, he knew in his heart what he once was, and now was his chance to prove it.
“That t’is where ye’r wrong you vile Highlander. I know ye’r kind is known for their sheer lack o’ intelligence, but I knew not they lacked in eyesight as well – for ye are indeed looking at The God of Midgaard true.” Cross ended the comment with a smirk and did his best to puff out his chest and look strong and Godlike like he once did. But the Scotsman would have none of it as he simply laughed at the idea of it.
“First off, fool, ye are certainly no more God than I. Look at ye, ye’re withering away, ye’re a sad excuse for a man, much less a God! And besides, ye know as well as I that those Gods exist as nothing more than stories, ye’r silly little war-heroes are all a sad joke. Asgaard? Frost-Giants? Valhalla? Pah! I laugh at them all, ye’re an uneducated moron, now get out of my face before ye piss me off further.” And with that said, the man went to turn, putting his back before Hammer and in doing so, he could not see how the words infuriated the titan. With teeth clenched tight, he balled his fists up as well. It was one thing to make fun of him, but another entirely to make fun of the Gods. Surely Cross could not argue he no longer looked as he did before, but to claim that the over-seers of the Universe, the very same men who created you do not exist, and especially to deny the existence of The God of Midgaard, the man set to save your very life at the onset of Ragnarok – that’s where the line is drawn.
So then, with his opponent facing the opposite direction, Cross took a handful of his hair within his fist and then drove a fist in to the small of the Highlander’s back, relishing in the loud pops that the spine made from the impact. If it weren’t for Brett having a handful of this warrior’s hair, he would have quickly crumpled, but because he was supported by the top of his head, he had no choice but to stay standing on weakened legs. Cross growled loudly and then drove his fist in to the small of the instigator’s back once more, this time drawing bloody piss to run down from the Scot’s kilt and puddle on the floor beneath where he could barely stand. Feeling ready to puke, the Scot attempted to turn and fight back, but Cross would have none of it and caught the elbow of the man and twisted, dislocating forearm from upper arm in one quick jerk. The Scot cried out as his arm jutted out horrifically from where elbow once connected it. He stumbled back, staring at the disgusting sight and then looking up at Brett, his eyes full of fear – fear of death, and fear of being wrong.
For, whether Cross still had the outward abilities or not, it was true that he still had the god-like abilities within. And that was a sense of pride for Cross, to learn that he had not lost it all. But on the other hand, his opponent, the Scotsman that acted so tough before had lost all pride he once had. In a matter of seconds, and over a situation that did not call for it, the Scot had showed he was nothing more than a coward and a fool. He instigated a fight he could not handle, and acted as if he could win with ease. Yet, he did not know what he was up against, no matter what he tried to trick himself in to believing. And Cross? Cross saw the fear in his eyes, and as any true warrior knows, that was the end of the battle. If you’re scared, you die. Cross? He is never scared, he never shows fear. This man? All honor he once had was gone – he pissed blood upon the floor, and his lip quivered at the pain his attacker delivered. But unfortunately for the pathetic Highlander, the beating was far from over – he started this and thusly Cross would finish it ample.
The Scot stumbled back, attempting to find room between him and Cross, but unsure what to do beyond then, but merely managed to slip upon the blood-piss and fall back, his shattered elbow taking the brunt of the fall and causing him to cry out from the pain. Struggling against time, pain and fear, the man drew a dagger from his waist in his best attempt at secrecy as the bearded demon drew near. Then, when he was within striking distance, the Scot attempted to ram the blade through the quadriceps of Brett, but Cross had it well scouted as he effortlessly kicked the man’s wrist, sending the dagger flying across the hall. Then in the same motion, Brett brought his boot down upon the poor tortured soul and stomped hard at his chest, caving the sternum with a loud pop and splinter. Finally losing his breath as bone splinters pierced his heart and lungs, a voice began to call in the back of Cross’ mind, pleading him to stop. But Brett ignored it and by taking a handful of hair in his fist, he lifted the man up – despite what the voice begged of him, he had not proved his point yet. Damnit, he was The God of Midgaard and he still is – and whether he wants to believe it or not is not the case because by the end of this, he WILL believe that he was demolished by a God.
Grabbing the Scot in a tight bear hug, he ran forward, smashing him through the wood pillars of the door and then drove him down hard in to the ground outside the hall. Cross landed atop him and mounted his chest that had caved in sickeningly, the skin lying limp over organ and shattered remnants of bone. Then, with his new position found, pinning the man’s arms to his sides, he began to rain blow after blow upon the Scot’s face, who could do not much more but take the blows as they came. At first, he cried out in pain with each hit, but in a short span of time, his shattered face became numb. Cross was proving his might; he was destroying the foolish heretic. He was going to kill this blasphemous liar to prove that he was indeed a God and in turn that Gods existed. Here, he was the honorable one and the Scot was a pathetic, dying man. But with every fist that came down on the Scot’s face, the voice in Cross’ mind grew louder and louder until it became a splitting boom inside his head that caused him to stop in mid-swing. When he did, the Scot looked up to him, wanting nothing more than to be put out of his misery.
“Kill me, man! Let me die with honor!”
Honor? Ha! The Highlander’s honor was gone – he was beaten before it even began, and if that was not enough he showed fear. Many of the base principles of a warrior were thrown to the wayside by the swift onslaught of this demon. All pride and all honor of the Scotsman were extinguished by the might of Brett – this fool had no honor left. And as his foe sputtered blood, Cross couldn’t help but laugh on the inside, for surely now this man must wish he had believed in the afterlife of Valhalla, so he could have some kind of chance of living on. And with that thought, the laughter faded quickly.
“Gladly” was all that Brett said as he brought down the fist, driving it straight through the face of the Scotsman. His face was already a mass of torn flesh and broken bones so there was very little resistance as Brett drove the fist in deep, going hard until he could feel his hand touch on the other side of the Scott’s skull – brain squeezing out of his ears away from the pressure and both eyeballs squishing and bursting beneath the blow. But as his hand laid buried deep in the defeated Scotsman’s face, the white noise faded, his memory returned.
The fallen foe spat out his words beneath a mouth full of thick red blood. The force of the outburst set the man in to a coughing fit and as he struggled for breath, the pool of gore in his mouth volcanoed out and dribbled down his cheeks. The red spittle splattered across Brett’s chest and face as he reared back, fist raised high. There Cross lay, pinning a man beneath him – one hand gripped tight around the war-ravaged competitor’s throat, the other brought back ready for the final blow. The two were entangled, the result surely of a long, bloody struggle, and by how he cried out, it was one between two honorable warriors. Only now, Hammer had the Highlander pinned to the proverbial mat that was crimson stained blades of grass. But with fist held high, his face became a weird wash of emotion, a contorted canvas of concern and guilt, and a little voice in the back of his mind shouted, “Cross! Don’t!”
Cross entered the pub one he was not familiar with. When he awoke, he was cast in to a land that was not at all like his own. Yet no matter where he was, Brett could surely find a grand cup of mead. And so, Cross walked in sluggishly with his head hung. Despite any revelations he had in the past few weeks, he was still quite lethargic. Even though he’d been doing much soul-searching and self-examination, he could come up with nothing – he still knew not of what life was about, his in particular. He knows true that he was at one moment seated among the Gods, he still vividly recalls the sights and emotions of Asgaard, and he remembers the tight clench of Heimdall’s hand-shake. But beyond then, it’s a wash of white noise, of nothingness. And thusly, Brett walked the world unsure of what to do; unsure of what had happened, of where he came from or where to go. Before, his life had purpose; it had meaning, and a massive one at that: he was to save the world. Now? Now, who is to say there is a world? What if life as we know it does not exist, and all of this is naught but a dream. Who’s to say he had any control over anything he did. At one time, he was The God of Midgaard, and now he’s a purposeless peasant – and he knows not why.
Weakness is all Cross feels now, as If in that absence of his memory all of the strength he once had was stripped from him. And what’s more, the blade he used to carry to signify his strength and status, the illustrious Brandrwulf no longer is at his side. When Cross awoke back upon Midgaard, the blade was nowhere to be found, just like his strength and purpose, his title and status was stripped from him without reason as well. But weirder still, Ragnarok surely had not fallen on this world, for there were no signs of it anywhere. Ragnarok was the end of the world, the cataclysm of cataclysmic chaos, the epitome of ethereal and evil entropy. Yet not a blade of grass on this earth was harmed – it was as if the world had been saved during Cross’ absence, for who could know how long he had been out for, or perhaps Ragnarok had never fallen at all.
With a mind full of frustration and endless questions, Brett growled deep and swatted the piss-like mead aside, splashing the contents of the mug over the entirety of the patron next to him. But Cross paid no attention to this, staying lost in the dark abyss of the white noise that was his past, struggling hard to discover how things came to be. So lost was he, that he didn’t even notice the man’s anger until he stood and forcefully turned Hammer about in his seat to face him. But then, angered too because his thoughts were disrupted, Cross stood up to the man who came up just to mid-chest upon him and glowered down at him, his eyes a blazing inferno of hatred – God or not, Brett still had his size and if one thing was true, it was that his loss of powers made him walk with a chip on his shoulder, and he’d certainly jump at any chance to prove his strength once more. The man began to speak in a tongue quite foreign to Cross, but quickly realized his point was not being made and he smirked up at the big warrior before re-stating the sentence in a way Hammer could understand.
“What I said was, you can try all ye want ta look like that pathetic Norse god “’ammer,” but you won’t scare me. I should kick ye’r ass over spilling that beer on me you filthy cow.”
Brett was at first taken aback by the comment, for when he looked in to the lake earlier this week; he no longer felt he looked like his old self. Surely the beard and hair stayed true, but his muscles seemed to have diminished, his battle scars seemed to turn to age lines and his face was etched with wrinkles – it was as if his immortality began to dwindle after he’d been alive far longer than he should of, he was a God turned human long past his human time. But alas, he kept his Viking mindset, his Viking blood and whether he felt it or not, he knew in his heart what he once was, and now was his chance to prove it.
“That t’is where ye’r wrong you vile Highlander. I know ye’r kind is known for their sheer lack o’ intelligence, but I knew not they lacked in eyesight as well – for ye are indeed looking at The God of Midgaard true.” Cross ended the comment with a smirk and did his best to puff out his chest and look strong and Godlike like he once did. But the Scotsman would have none of it as he simply laughed at the idea of it.
“First off, fool, ye are certainly no more God than I. Look at ye, ye’re withering away, ye’re a sad excuse for a man, much less a God! And besides, ye know as well as I that those Gods exist as nothing more than stories, ye’r silly little war-heroes are all a sad joke. Asgaard? Frost-Giants? Valhalla? Pah! I laugh at them all, ye’re an uneducated moron, now get out of my face before ye piss me off further.” And with that said, the man went to turn, putting his back before Hammer and in doing so, he could not see how the words infuriated the titan. With teeth clenched tight, he balled his fists up as well. It was one thing to make fun of him, but another entirely to make fun of the Gods. Surely Cross could not argue he no longer looked as he did before, but to claim that the over-seers of the Universe, the very same men who created you do not exist, and especially to deny the existence of The God of Midgaard, the man set to save your very life at the onset of Ragnarok – that’s where the line is drawn.
So then, with his opponent facing the opposite direction, Cross took a handful of his hair within his fist and then drove a fist in to the small of the Highlander’s back, relishing in the loud pops that the spine made from the impact. If it weren’t for Brett having a handful of this warrior’s hair, he would have quickly crumpled, but because he was supported by the top of his head, he had no choice but to stay standing on weakened legs. Cross growled loudly and then drove his fist in to the small of the instigator’s back once more, this time drawing bloody piss to run down from the Scot’s kilt and puddle on the floor beneath where he could barely stand. Feeling ready to puke, the Scot attempted to turn and fight back, but Cross would have none of it and caught the elbow of the man and twisted, dislocating forearm from upper arm in one quick jerk. The Scot cried out as his arm jutted out horrifically from where elbow once connected it. He stumbled back, staring at the disgusting sight and then looking up at Brett, his eyes full of fear – fear of death, and fear of being wrong.
For, whether Cross still had the outward abilities or not, it was true that he still had the god-like abilities within. And that was a sense of pride for Cross, to learn that he had not lost it all. But on the other hand, his opponent, the Scotsman that acted so tough before had lost all pride he once had. In a matter of seconds, and over a situation that did not call for it, the Scot had showed he was nothing more than a coward and a fool. He instigated a fight he could not handle, and acted as if he could win with ease. Yet, he did not know what he was up against, no matter what he tried to trick himself in to believing. And Cross? Cross saw the fear in his eyes, and as any true warrior knows, that was the end of the battle. If you’re scared, you die. Cross? He is never scared, he never shows fear. This man? All honor he once had was gone – he pissed blood upon the floor, and his lip quivered at the pain his attacker delivered. But unfortunately for the pathetic Highlander, the beating was far from over – he started this and thusly Cross would finish it ample.
The Scot stumbled back, attempting to find room between him and Cross, but unsure what to do beyond then, but merely managed to slip upon the blood-piss and fall back, his shattered elbow taking the brunt of the fall and causing him to cry out from the pain. Struggling against time, pain and fear, the man drew a dagger from his waist in his best attempt at secrecy as the bearded demon drew near. Then, when he was within striking distance, the Scot attempted to ram the blade through the quadriceps of Brett, but Cross had it well scouted as he effortlessly kicked the man’s wrist, sending the dagger flying across the hall. Then in the same motion, Brett brought his boot down upon the poor tortured soul and stomped hard at his chest, caving the sternum with a loud pop and splinter. Finally losing his breath as bone splinters pierced his heart and lungs, a voice began to call in the back of Cross’ mind, pleading him to stop. But Brett ignored it and by taking a handful of hair in his fist, he lifted the man up – despite what the voice begged of him, he had not proved his point yet. Damnit, he was The God of Midgaard and he still is – and whether he wants to believe it or not is not the case because by the end of this, he WILL believe that he was demolished by a God.
Grabbing the Scot in a tight bear hug, he ran forward, smashing him through the wood pillars of the door and then drove him down hard in to the ground outside the hall. Cross landed atop him and mounted his chest that had caved in sickeningly, the skin lying limp over organ and shattered remnants of bone. Then, with his new position found, pinning the man’s arms to his sides, he began to rain blow after blow upon the Scot’s face, who could do not much more but take the blows as they came. At first, he cried out in pain with each hit, but in a short span of time, his shattered face became numb. Cross was proving his might; he was destroying the foolish heretic. He was going to kill this blasphemous liar to prove that he was indeed a God and in turn that Gods existed. Here, he was the honorable one and the Scot was a pathetic, dying man. But with every fist that came down on the Scot’s face, the voice in Cross’ mind grew louder and louder until it became a splitting boom inside his head that caused him to stop in mid-swing. When he did, the Scot looked up to him, wanting nothing more than to be put out of his misery.
“Kill me, man! Let me die with honor!”
Honor? Ha! The Highlander’s honor was gone – he was beaten before it even began, and if that was not enough he showed fear. Many of the base principles of a warrior were thrown to the wayside by the swift onslaught of this demon. All pride and all honor of the Scotsman were extinguished by the might of Brett – this fool had no honor left. And as his foe sputtered blood, Cross couldn’t help but laugh on the inside, for surely now this man must wish he had believed in the afterlife of Valhalla, so he could have some kind of chance of living on. And with that thought, the laughter faded quickly.
“Gladly” was all that Brett said as he brought down the fist, driving it straight through the face of the Scotsman. His face was already a mass of torn flesh and broken bones so there was very little resistance as Brett drove the fist in deep, going hard until he could feel his hand touch on the other side of the Scott’s skull – brain squeezing out of his ears away from the pressure and both eyeballs squishing and bursting beneath the blow. But as his hand laid buried deep in the defeated Scotsman’s face, the white noise faded, his memory returned.
